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CHOCORUA'S  TENANTS.  Poems.  With  8  Illus 
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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


CHOCORUA'S    TENANTS 


BY 


FRANK   BOLLES 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

res?,  Cambri&0e 

1895 


V 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  ELIZABETH  Q.   BOLLES. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H<  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS 


THE  CROW i 

THE  LOG-COCK 9 

THE  RUFFED  GROUSE 15 

THE  EAVES  SWALLOW         ....      23 

THE  BLUE  JAY 29 

THE  OVEN-BIRD 34 

BLACK  DOMINO  :   THE  MARYLAND  YELLOW- 
THROAT         37 

Two  SENTINELS 40 

THE  PARULA 45 

THE  RED-POLL  LINNET      ....      48 
MONK  AND  NUN  :  THE  BLACK  SNOW-BIRD 

AND  WHITE-THROATED  SPARROW     .        .  52 
THE  GREAT  CRESTED  FLY-CATCHER         .      57 

THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL 61 

THE  KINGFISHER.       .  ...      64 


M191811 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  Westward  of  Chocorua  water."    Frontispiece. 

"  Deep  within  the  forests'  reaches "    .     .    .     .  5 

"Ice  and  snow  incase  Chocorua" 15 

"  Cliffs  below  Chocorua's  shadow  "     ....  23 

"  Trees  whose  leaves  are  shed  in  autumn  "     .  34 

"  Ah,  how  silent  are  the  forests  1 "      ....  48 

"  The  crag's  steep  border  " 54 

"  Sunlight  sparkles  on  the  water  "      ....  62 


CHOCORUA'S  TENANTS 


THE  CROW 

N  the  days  of  rushing  waters, 
Days  when  sunbeams  pierce  the 

snow-banks, 
Days  when  maple  sap  is  moving, 
Days  when  on  the  lake's  broad  surface 
Dark  and  spongy  grows  the  ice-field, 
From  his  range  beside  the  ocean, 
Longing  glances  towards  the  mountains 
Darts  the  crow  with  thoughts  of  nesting. 

High  and  higher  climbs  the  Sun  king, 

Hurling  burning  darts  before  him 

Into  dark  and  frozen  valleys, 

Into  cold  and  silent  forests. 

Then  the  crow  on  Scarborough  marshes 


2  The  Crow 

Hears  the  laughter  of  the  waters, 
Hears  the  groaning  of  the  ice  floes, 
Hears  the  rush  of  Piscataqua ; 
Hearing,  soars  on  high  exulting, 
Beats  his  wings  against  the  west  wind, 
Seeks  Chocorua  and  his  nesting. 

In  the  orchard  sings  the  bluebird ; 
In  the  forest  mews  the  red  hawk; 
Butterflies,  from  winter  slumbers, 
Flutter  o'er  the  wasting  snow-drifts  ; 
Then  it  is  a  distant  cawing, 
Growing  louder  —  coming  nearer, 
Tells  of  crows  returning  inland 
From  their  winter  on  the  marshes. 

Iridescent  is  their  plumage, 
Loud  their  voices,  bold  their  clamor, 
In  the  pools  and  shallows  wading  j 
Or  in  overflowing  meadows 
Searching  for  the  waste  of  winter  — 
Scraps  and  berries  freed  by  thawing. 


The  Crow  3 

Weird  their  notes,  and  hoarse  their  croak 
ing  ; 
Silent  only  when  the  night  comes. 

Where  Chocorua  water  ripples 
In  its  first  half-conscious  struggle 
From  its  mother-mountain  parting, 
On  its  journey  seaward  starting, 
Rises  high  a  grove  of  pine-trees. 
Graceful  are  they  as  the  feathers 
Bound  about  a  chieftain's  temples  ; 
Graceful  as  the  slender  fern  fronds 
Swayed  by  every  passing  wind-breath. 

In  these  pines  the  crows  have  nested 
Countless  seasons.     From  their  branches 
Robber  leaders,  full  of  bluster, 
Forth  have  led  their  black  marauders 
To  the  ploughings,  to  the  corn-fields, 
To  their  battles  with  the  farmer. 
High  above  the  singing  water, 
Anchored  firm  against  the  tempests, 
Shrewdly  screened  from  passing  hunters, 


4  The  Crow 

Rest  the  nests  of  matted  pine  twigs, 
Rest  the  castles  of  the  robbers. 

In  the  days  of  melting  snow-drifts, 
Days  when  down  the  lakes  come  drifting 
Wreck  and  raft  of  winter's  ice-field, 
Crows  are  busy  in  the  treetops. 
Far  away  upon  the  hill  crests, 
Scanning  lake,  and  road,  and  meadow, 
Are  the  pickets,  full  of  clamor. 
If  by  chance  they  see  the  farmer, 
Hills  reecho,  and  the  pine-trees 
Are  deserted,  left  in  silence. 

When  hepaticas  are  blooming, 

When    the   blood  -  root   smiles    towards 

Heaven, 

When  young  columbine  the  jester 
Shakes  her  bells  above  the  moss-cups, 
Mother  crows  with  warm  devotion 
Guard  their  eggs  beneath  their  feathers, 
Watch  afar  the  farmer  planting, 
Count  the  days  until  the  hatching. 


The  Crow 

Midway  in  the  month  of  roses, 
When  beside  the  brook  is  blooming, 
Pure  and  shy,  the  sweet  linnaea ; 
In  the  pines,  among  the  beeches, 
On  the  boulders,  cawing,  scolding, 
All  the  crows  in  Crowlands  gather. 
Then  it  is  the  young  are  learning 
How  to  stand  and  beat  their  pinions, 
How  to  caw,  and  croak,  and  bluster. 
Happy  days  those  days  in  June-tide ; 
Days  of  feasting,  days  of  plunder. 

When  the  goldenrod  uplifted 

As  a  wayside  benediction 

Cheers  the  traveler  on  his  journey 

Through  the  sultry  hours  of  August, 

Deep  within  the  forest's  reaches, 

In  the  shadow  of  the  ledges, 

Where  the  mosses  drip  with  moisture, 

Where  the  trout  brook  softly  splashes, 

Where  the  big-eyed  flying  squirrels 

Undisturbed  dream  out  the  daylight, 

Gather  crows  in  friendly  concourse. 


6  The  Crow 

Some  upon  the  oaks'  low  branches, 
Some  upon  the  cool,  damp  mosses, 
Some  within  the  limpid  waters 
Wade  and  watch  their  black  reflections. 
All  their  notes  are  low  and  drowsy, 
Muffled  croaks,  and  guttural  cawings, 
All  their  motions  speak  contentment, 
Tell  of  coolness,  well-fed  comfort. 

When  the  sun  toward  Passaconway 
Takes  his  downward  course  towards  even 
ing, 

Crows  are  out  again  and  stirring ; 
O'er  the  pines  excited  circling  ; 
O'er  the  lake  with  straight  flight  flapping  ; 
On  the  hilltops  loudly  cawing. 
But  as  darkness  from  the  valleys 
Reaches  out  and  clasps  the  mountains, 
Shadows,  heavy-winged  and  noiseless, 
One  by  one,  throb  through  the  pine  woods. 
Crows  are  seeking  sleep  the  restful ; 
Crows  regain  their  roosts  in  silence. 


The  Crow  7 

Days  wear  on,  and  summer  passes  ; 
Chilling  winds  pour  down  from  Paugus  ; 
Gold  and  crimson  deck  the  maples  ; 
Purple  are  the  fox  grape  clusters  ; 
Blackened  ferns  droop  o'er  the  meadows  ; 
Farmers  homeward  haul  their  harvest. 
Then  in  Crowlands  there  is  bustle, 
Noise,  excitement,  and  confusion. 
Snowflakes  flutter  round  Chocorua  ; 
Black  flakes  settle  on  the  pastures. 
Every  stump  and  every  boulder 
Has  its  sable  robber  chieftain. 
Thousands  congregate  and  quarrel ; 
Miles  away  the  mountains  hear  them. 
If  perchance  a  hunter  passes, 
If  the  cattle,  restless,  straying, 
Snap  dead  branches  in  the  forest, 
Up  the  throng  flies,  clouding  heaven, 
Nervous,  petulant,  expectant. 

When  the  chill  gusts  sweep  past  Paugus, 
Lashing  all  the  lakes  to  white  foam, 
All  the  mighty  hosts  of  Crowlands 


8  The  Crow 

Mount  the  air  by  common  impulse ; 
Turn  their  legions  towards  the  eastward, 
Turn  their  backs  upon  the  mountains, 
Turn  away  from  threatened  hunger  ; 
Seek  the  salty  wastes  of  tide  land, 
Seek  the  boundless  flats  of  Scarborough, 
Seek  the  broad-winged  gulls  and  gannets, 
Seek  the  spoil  of  cruel  Ocean. 

Silent  snows  fall  on  Chocorua, 
Snows  which  bury  ledge  and  thicket. 
In  the  pine  grove  all  is  quiet ; 
Squirrels  slumber  in  the  crows'  nests  ; 
Owls  and  foxes  rule  the  forest ; 
Days  are  short  and  nights  are  frozen. 
Thus  the  winter  broods  o'er  Crowlands 
In  the  days  when  crows  are  absent. 


THE   LOG-COCK 

N  the  glens  below  Chocorua, 
In  the  forests  north  of  Paugus, 
On  the  steeps  of  Passaconway, 
Where  the  yellow  birch  and  hemlock, 
Scarred  not  by  the  blade  of  commerce, 
Spring  from  moss-clad  beds  of  granite  ; 
Where  the  brown  bear,  law  defying, 
And  the  red  deer,  law  protected, 
Make  their  homes  among  the  moose-wood, 
Sleep  upon  the  sweet  linnaea  ; 
Where  in  spring  the  leaping  waters 
Rush  in  three  ways  towards  the  ocean, 
By  the  Saco,  by  the  Bearcamp, 
By  the  mad  Pemigewasset ; 
Where  in  winter  moaning  tempests 
Rack  the  forests,  whirl  the  snowflakes, 
Dwells  in  grim  and  lonely  glory, 
All  the  year,  the  sombre  log-cock. 


w  The  Log-Cock 

Would  you  seek  him  ?     Borrow  owl  wings 
Soft  as  darkness,  light  as  lake-mist ; 
Learn  to  tread  the  leaves  with  fox  feet, 
Like  the  hare  to  cross  the  snow-drifts, 
Learn  to  burrow  like  the  woodchuck, 
Learn  to  listen  like  the  partridge, 
Learn  to  wait  as  does  the  wild  cat, 
Learn  to  start  as  does  the  red  deer ; 
Wary,  watchful,  is  the  log-cock, 
Man  among  his  foes  most  dreading. 

Once  his  realm  reached  to  the  ocean, 
Once  the  Saugus  heard  his  clamor, 
But  the  hand  that  felled  the  hemlock 
Drove  him  backward  to  the  mountains. 
Seek  him  not  beside  still  waters, 
Seek  him  not  in  meadow  grasses, 
Seek  him  not  in  new-grown  timber  ; 
Only  in  primeval  forests, 
Only  where  the  mighty  hemlocks 
Skyward  lift  their  storm-bent  branches, 
Will  you  find  the  log-cock  toiling, 
Will  you  hear  his  shriek  appalling, 
Will  you  see  his  flame  crest  gleaming. 


The  Log-Cock  n 

In  the  early  winter  mornings, 
Ere  the  crossbills  leave  the  pine  woods, 
Ere  the  grosbeaks  seek  the  ash  seeds, 
Ere  the  red  polls  find  the  birch  buds, 
Ere  the  titmouse  calls  his  Phoebe ; 
While  the  red  fox  still  is  prowling, 
While  the  partridge  still  is  budding, 
Just  before  the  sun  comes  stealing 
Upwards  from  the  Bearcamp  meadows, 
You  may  hear  the  log-cock  working 
In  the  glens  below  Chocorua, 
In  the  forests  north  of  Paugus, 
On  the  slopes  of  Passaconway. 
Hammer  blows  on  hollow  tree-trunks, 
Blows  which  echo  from  the  mountains, 
Strikes  he  with  his  nervous  chisel. 
Chips  are  flying  all  around  him, 
Chips  *  are  piling  high  below  him, 
Still  his  blows  fall  fast  and  earnest, 
Still  the  cliffs  and  woods  repeat  them. 

l  The  writer,  attracted  by  a  pile  of  chips  on  the  snow, 
once  found  a  hole  in  a  hemlock  trunk  recently  dug  by  a 
pileated  woodpecker,  from  which  268  cubic  inches  of 
wood  had  been  removed. 


12  The  Log-Cock 

If  with  fox  feet  you  approach  him, 
If  with  scant  breath  you  discern  him, 
In  this  early  winter  morning 
As  he  toils  with  noisy  rappings, 
You  will  see  his  claws  embedded 
In  the  hemlock's  outer  fibre, 
You  will  see  his  glossy  plumage 
Dark  against  the  snowy  hillside, 
You    will    see    his    head    thrown    back 
ward, 

Then  with  spiteful  force  flung  forward, 
You  will  see  the  fresh  chips  flying, 
You  will  hear  the  tree  complaining. 

If  you  crush  the  crust  beneath  you, 
If  his  glance  chance  to  be  towards  you, 
You  will  see  the  flame  crest  lifted, 
You  will  see  his  eye  flash  anger, 
You  will  hear  a  shriek  so  vengeful, 
In  your  dreams  will  come  its  echo. 
Then  the  log-cock  will  have  vanished, 
And  the  ants  within  the  hemlock 
Will  escape  his  morning  drilling. 


The  Log-Cock  13 

If  with  summer  heat  half-fainting 

On  Chocorua's  slope  you  linger, 

Ossipee  and  Tamworth  water 

In  the  distant  sunbeams  flashing, 

Once  again  with  sudden  wonder 

You  may  hear  the  log-cock's  signal, 

Weird,  unearthly,  fear  inspiring. 

To  his  mate,  perhaps,  a  love  note, 

To  their  young  in  hollow  tree-trunk 

It  may  tell  of  tender  morsels, 

Found  beneath  the  mouldering  pine  bark. 

When  the  blade  of  greed  and  commerce 
Robs  the  Saco  of  its  woodland, 
Strips  the  mad  Pemigewasset 
Of  its  sheltering  birch  and  hemlock, 
Fells  from  Ossipee  to  Paugus, 
Bares  the  crest  of  Passaconway, 
Then  the  log-cock  too  will  vanish, 
Seeking  death  or  distant  refuge, 
Shunning  man,  the  sure  destroyer, 
Man  who  wastes  the  ancient  forests. 


1 4  The  Log-Cock 

As  few  know  him,  few  will  miss  him, 
Yet  the  few  will  mourn  his  going, 
For  among  Chocorua's  tenants, 
Oldest  seems  he  of  its  vassals, 
From  some  former  age  surviving  ; 
Left  to  guard  the  ancient  hemlocks, 
Left  to  wave  his  flaming  signal, 
Left  to  shriek  his  vengeful  warning, 
Left  to  be  the  last  to  perish 
In  the  conquest  of  the  forest. 


u 


THE    RUFFED  GROUSE 

CE  and  snow  incase  Chocorua, 
Ice    and   snow   press   down  the 

forests, 

Ice  and  snow  enthrall  the  rivers, 
Under  ice  and  snow  the  lake  groans, 
Sends  wild  moanings  to  the  mountains, 
Tells  its  pain  to  gloomy  Paugus, 
Starts  the  deer  on  Passaconway. 
Few  and  feeble  are  the  sun's  rays, 
Coming  late  and  going  early, 
Long  the  nights  and  chill  their  breathings, 
Scant  the  song  of  birds  in  these  days. 

When  the  pallid  sun  has  vanished 
Under  Osceola's  ledges, 
When  the  lengthening  shadows  mingle 
In  a  sombre  sea  of  twilight, 


1 6  The  Ruffed  Grouse 

From  the  hemlocks  in  the  hollow 
Swift  emerging  comes  the  partridge  ; 
Not  a  sound  betrays  her  starting, 
Not  a  sound  betrays  her  lighting 
In  the  birches  by  the  wayside, 
In  her  favored  place  for  budding. 

When  the  twilight  turns  to  darkness, 
When  the  fox's  bark  is  sounding, 
From  her  buds  the  partridge  hastens, 
Seeks  the  soft  snow  by  the  hazels, 
Burrows  in  its  sheltering  masses, 
Burrows  where  no  owl  can  find  her. 

Ah,  how  welcome  is  the  springtime ! 
With  its  hoard  of  buds  expanding, 
With  its  berries  left  uncovered 
By  the  melting  of  the  snow-fields, 
With  its  sweet,  pure  western  breezes, 
With  the  perfume  of  the  mayflower, 
With  the  singing  of  the  finches, 
With  the  music  of  the  waters. 


The  Ruffed  Grouse  77 

From  the  glens  below  Chocorua 
Comes  the  sound  of  log-cocks  drumming. 
In  the  poplar  groves  of  Paugus 
Every  downy  beats  his  answer, 
In  the  orchard  and  the  birch  wood 
Joyous  titmice  plan  their  dwellings, 
In  the  pine  wood  by  the  lake  shore 
Bustles  back  and  forth  the  nuthatch. 

Then  it  is  the  stately  partridge 
Spreads  his  ruff  and  mounts  his  rostrum, 
Gazes  proudly  round  the  thicket, 
Sounds  his  strange  and  muffled  signal. 
First  with  slow  and  heavy  measure, 
Then  like  eager,  hurried  heart-beats, 
Ending  in  a  nervous  flutter 
Faster  than  the  ear  can  reckon. 

Midway  in  the  May-month  season, 
From  her  haughty,  strutting  master 
To  the  silence  of  the  pine  wood 
Steals  the  happy  partridge  mother, 
Under  cloak  of  yew  and  moose-wood, 


1 8  The  Ruffed  Grouse 

Under  brush  and  in  the  shadow, 

Seeks  a  hollow  lined  with  mosses, 

Filled  with  leaves  and  sweet  pine  needles ; 

There  her  pale  brown  eggs  she  fondles, 

There  in  anxious  silence  watches, 

Stirs  not,  starts  not,  though  dread  danger 

Passes  near  her,  crashes  by  her. 

Warm  the  leaves  when  chicks  are  hatch 
ing, 

Full  the  ground  of  dainty  morsels, 
Broad  the  ferns  to  hide  her  darlings, 
Keen  her  ear  to  tell  of  danger. 

If  perchance  a  man  approaches, 
Nears  her  brood  and  notes  her  presence, 
Ah,  how  quickly  does  the  mother 
Risk  herself  to  save  her  nestlings ! 
Whining,  moaning,  near  him  crouching, 
Limping,  fluttering,  leading  onward, 
While  the  chicks,  with  matchless  cunning 
Craft  inherited  from  ages, 
Under  leaves,  beneath  broad  mushrooms, 


.     The  Ruffed  Grouse  79 

Into  stumps,  or  gaping  ledges 
Crowd  their  downy,  frightened  bodies, 
Wait  till  danger  long  has  vanished. 
Then  with  reassuring  mewing 
Comes  the  mother  back  to  call  them, 
Nestle  one  by  one  beneath  her, 
Soothe  their  fright  and  preen  their  plum 
age. 

Anxious  days  —  the  days  of  autumn, 
When  from  foggy  morn  till  evening 
Every  mountain  rolls  back  echoes, 
Guns  are  thund'ring,  dogs  are  yelping, 
Danger  lurks  in  every  thicket, 
Flocks  are  broken,  broods  are  scattered. 

Red  the  maples  —  red  like  heart's  blood, 
Thick    the    leaves    fall  —  thick    as    sor 
rows, 

Every  breeze  becomes  a  warning, 
Every  creaking  limb  a  terror, 
Every  trailing  stem  of  blackb'ry 
Seems  a  snare  to  seize  the  heedless. 


so  The  Ruffed  Grouse 

High  upon  the  oaks  the  squirrels 
Frolic  fast  among  the  acorns, 
On  the  moss  beneath,  the  chipmunks 
Gather  up  the  falling  treasures. 
Shrill  and  nervous  is  their  signal, 
If  their  ever-watchful  glances 
Fall  upon  the  skulking  hunter 
Prowling  through  the  distant  shadows. 

When  October  sears  the  oak  leaves 
Silence  settles  on  the  forest. 
Southward  have  the  swallows  darted, 
Southward  sped  the  warbler  legions, 
Southward  are  the  thrushes  flocking, 
Crows  complaining  seek  the  Ocean. 
With  the  snowflakes  o'er  the  mountains 
Hasten  past  the  hawks  from  Northland, 
Speed  along  the  titmice,  juncos, 
White  -  crowned    sparrows,    wrens,     and 

creepers, 

Tiny  kinglets,  sweet-voiced  bluebirds, 
All  in  eager  search  for  havens 
Where  the  touch  of  winter  kills  not. 


The  Ruffed  Grouse  21 

Close  behind  them  come  the  crossbills, 
Come  with  joyous  notes  the  redpolls, 
Come  pine  grosbeaks,  too  confiding, 
Come  the  hosts  from  Arctic  nestings. 

Colder  grows  the  lengthening  darkness, 
Feebler  grow  the  sun's  caresses, 
Wailing  winds  rush  through  the  forests, 
Sweeping  myriad  leaves  before  them  ; 
But  the  partridge  fears  no  storm-wind, 
Winter  has  for  her  no  terrors. 
Warm  her  heart  and  thick  her  feathers, 
Strong  her  wings  and  brave  her  nature, 
She  exults  in  whirling  beech  leaves, 
Groaning  branches  make  her  music, 
Snowflakes  form  for  her  a  shelter, 
Food  is  certain  as  in  summer, 
Foes  are  fewer  than  in  autumn. 

Countless  ages  has  Chocorua 
Seen  the  partridge  in  the  forest, 
Heard  his  intermittent  drumming, 
Seen  him  budding  night  and  morning. 


22  The  Ruffed  Grouse 

May  the  ages  still  unnumbered, 
While  the  mountain  horn  endureth, 
Find  the  partridge  near  Chocorua 
Joyous  all  the  twelve-month  season. 


THE   EAVES   SWALLOW 

EARS  before  the  Saco  meadow 
Felt  the  feet  of  wand'ring  white 

men, 

Years  before  Chocorua's  echoes 
Were  aroused  by  mimic  thunder, 
Mimic  thunder  from  the  rifles 
Of  the  hunters,  of  the  white  men, 
Cliffs  along  the  face  of  Paugus, 
Cliffs  along  the  Saco  valley, 
Cliffs  below  Chocorua's  shadow, 
Bore  the  mud  huts  of  the  swallow. 

Not  the  swallow  of  the  sand-bank, 

Not  the  swallow  of  the  tree-trunk, 

Not  the  swallow  of  the  rafter, 

Not  the  friendly  purple  martin, 

Nor  the  swift  which  haunts  the  chimney, 

But  the  swallow  of  the  mud  nest, 


24  The  Eaves  Swallow 

He  with  blue  and  chestnut  breastplate, 
He  with  snow  upon  his  forehead. 

From  the  mud-banks  in  the  river 
Pellets  bore  he  to  the  cliff's  face, 
One  by  one  he  stuck  them  fast  there, 
Till  his  fortress  was  completed, 
Arched   and   roofed  and   lined  with  fea 
thers, 

With  its  tube-shaped  entrance  pointing 
Downward,  so  no  rain  could  enter ; 
Happy  homes,  those  by  the  Saco, 
Few  the  foes  could  reach  their  treasures. 

By  and  by  the  Saco  meadows 
Felt  the  feet  of  wandering  white  men, 
By  and  by  Chocorua's  echoes 
Were  awakened  by  the  rifles, 
By  and  by  the  stately  pine  woods 
Helped  to  build  the  white  man's  home 
stead, 

By  and  by  great  barns  were  planted, 
Milestones  in  the  new-made  clearings. 


The  Eaves  Swallow  25 

Then  the  swallows  from  the  mud  huts 
Came  to  hover  in  the  barnyards, 
Hover  round  the  strutting  roosters, 
Hover  near  the  dreaming  cattle  ; 
Feathers  plucked  they  from  the  pullets, 
Flies  they  caught  above  the  heifers, 
Mud  they  found  beside  the  dug-outs, 
Which  contained  the  bright  spring  water 
Led  there  from  the  upland  ledges. 

Rising  high  above  the  barnyards, 
Like  the  cliffs  above  the  Saco, 
Were  the  weathered  walls  and  shingles 
Of  the  farmer's  barns  and  lean-tos  ; 
Gray  like  rock,  but  warmer,  drier, 
Full  of  cracks  and  facing  four  ways, 
Better  surely  for  the  mud  huts 
Than  the  dewy  cliffs  of  Paugus. 
So  the  builders  of  the  mud  huts 
Left  the  meadows  of  the  Saco, 
Left  the  glistening  cliffs  of  Paugus, 
Came  and  dwelt  beside  the  white  man, 
Built  their  huts  beneath  his  barn  eaves, 


26  The  Eaves  Swallow 

Won  his  love  and  kind  protection, 
Multiplied,  and  lived  in  plenty. 

One  by  one  green  leaves  turned  crimson, 
One  by  one  the  winters  melted, 
Years   rolled    on    past    men    and    swal 
lows, 

Both  forgot  that  once  the  mud  huts 
On  the  Saco  cliffs  were  plastered  — 
Barns  alone  were  made  to  build  on, 
So  young  mothers  taught  their  nestlings. 

But  with  time  the  thrifty  farmer 
Learned  that  clapboards  neatly  lapping, 
Covering  all  the  rifts  and  gapings 
In  the  walls  which  kept  his  cattle, 
Made  their  stalls  and  mangers  warmer, 
Stopped  the  icy  draughts  of  winter. 
Then  he  learned  that  oils  and  pigments, 
Daubed  and  rubbed  upon  his  buildings, 
Kept  the  mischief  of  the  weather 
From  the  clapboards,  from  the  finish. 


The  Eaves  Swallow  27 

As  the  old  barns  fell  to  ruin, 

New  ones,  raised  to  take  their  places, 

Lacked  the  broad  and  generous  shelter 

Which  the  eaves  had  once  afforded 

To  the  owners  of  the  mud  huts, 

To  the  swallows  of  the  Saco. 

Weary-winged,  from  distant  Southlands, 
In  the  spring  have  come  the  swallows, 
Seeking  hopefully  their  nestings, 
Seeking  eaves  and  sun-warmed  barn  sides  ; 
Come  and  found  the  crackless  clapboards, 
Come  and  found  ill-odored  pigments, 
Come  and  found  new  barns  for  old  ones, 
Come  and  found  no  eaves  for  shelter, 
Come  with  joy  and  met  with  sorrow, 
Seeking  vainly  for  new  barn  sides 
Changeless  as  the  cliffs  of  Paugus. 

Weary-winged  the  homeless  swallows 
Flutter  on  into  the  darkness  — 
Whither  going  ?     That  they  know  not. 
But  't  is  certain  that  the  Saco, 


28  The  Eaves  Swallow 

That  the  lonely  cliffs  of  Paugus, 
That  the  steeps  below  Chocorua, 
Do  not  bear  their  cosy  dwellings. 
Years  ago,  on  man  depending, 
Mother  swallows  taught  their  nestlings 
Barns  alone  are  made  to  build  on  — 
Barns   have    failed   them,  man  betrayed 
them. 


THE   BLUE   JAY 

ROM  among  Chocorua's  tenants, 
From  among  the  birds  of  Crow- 

lands, 

One  in  all  eyes  is  a  villain. 
Loathed,  detested,  hated,  dreaded, 
Known  to  be  a  thief  and  ruffian, 
Known  to  be  a  foul  assassin, 
Known  to  be  a  sneak  and  coward, 
Hated  doubly  for  his  beauty. 

Crows  are  open  in  marauding, 
Crows  are  black  and  bold  and  bragging, 
Owls  confine  their  crimes  to  twilight 
Or  the  hours  of  moonlit  silence, 
Hawks  in  highest  heaven  hover, 
Soar  in  sight  of  all  their  victims, 
None  can  charge  them  with  deception, 
All  their  crimes  are  deeds  of  daring. 


jo  The  Blue  Jay 

Clad  in  blue  with  snow-white  trimmings, 
Clean  and  smooth  in  every  feather, 
Plumed  and  crested  like  a  dandy, 
Keen  of  vision,  strong  of  muscle, 
Shrewd  in  mimicry  and  dodging, 
Knowing  every  copse  and  thicket, 
Warm  in  snow  and  cool  in  summer, 
Is  the  blue  jay  still  a  villain  ? 
Outlawed  by  all  bird  tribunals, 
As  a  wretch  disguised,  he's  branded, 
Shunned  by  every  feathered  creature  ; 
Yet  he  prospers,  man  admires  him. 

Through  the  tedious  months  of  winter 
Round  the  corn-barn's  step  he  lingers, 
Boldly  down  among  the  poultry 
Comes  he  to  secure  their  kernels  ; 
Through    the    barb'ries,    through     the 

cedars, 

Prowls  he  searching  for  their  berries ; 
In  the  spruces,  in  the  hemlocks, 
Cocoons  from  the  bark  detaching. 


The  Blue  Jay 

But  so  soon  as  in  the  Maytime 
Eggs  are  laid  and  young  are  hatching, 
Berries,  buds,  and  worms  rejecting, 
Turns  this  scourge  to  sweeter  morsels  ; 
Woe  awaits  the  early  songster 
Whose  uncovered  nest  he  chances 
To  discover  as  he  's  sneaking 
Through  the  forest  seeking  plunder ; 
Wise  the  nuthatch  and  the  titmouse, 
Wise  the  bluebird  and  the  downy, 
To  conceal  their  nests  in  tree-trunks 
Where  this  monster  cannot  find  them  ; 
Ask  the  vireo  what  happens, 
Ask  the  junco  where  her  eggs  are, 
Ask  the  thrush  and  ask  the  robin 
What  assassin  slew  their  young  ones. 

Hundreds  perish  in  the  season, 
Egg  and  young  of  birds  as  useful 
As  their  slayer  is  unfriendly 
To  the  ways  and  plans  of  farmers. 


}2  The  Blue  Jay 

Retribution  sometimes  follows 
On  the  footsteps  of  this  monster. 
Crows  will  fly  among  the  savins, 
Search  among  the  bristling  branches, 
Find  the  nests  of  roots  and  bark  strips 
Armed  with  barbs  and  twined  with  bram 
bles, 

Full  of  eggs  or  young  just  gaping  — 
Dainty  morsels  those  for  crows'  tongues. 
Harsh  the  clamor  when  the  robber 
Comes  to  find  his  own  home  wasted, 
Wild  the  screams  and  fierce  the  anger, 
Vain  the  flights  around  the  nesting. 

Man  admires  him  for  his  feathers, 
Loves  to  watch  him  in  the  winter 
Boldly  fly  among  the  poultry, 
Snatching  golden  kernels  from  them, 
But  his  peers  alone  can  judge  him 
Justly,  clearly,  on  his  merits. 
One  and  all  they  call  him  outlaw, 
Hate   him,  loathe   him,  fear   him,  spurn 
him. 


TJje  Blue  Jay 

Be  his  plumage  light  and  dainty 

He  is  cousin  to  the  raven, 

Near  of  kin  is  he  to  Corvus, 

Black  his  heart,  and  black  his  kindred, 

False  his  colors,  false  his  nature. 

All  his  beauty  is  delusion, 

All  his  tricks  are  tricks  of  darkness ; 

Grim  Chocorua  through  his  cloud  veil 

Ever  looks  askance  upon  him. 


THE   OVEN-BIRD 

N  the  hollows  of  the  mountains, 
In   the   valleys   spreading    from 

them, 

Stand  the  rustling  broad-leaved  forests, 
Trees  whose  leaves  are  shed  in  autumn. 

Underneath  them  lie  the  leaf  beds, 
Resting  one  upon  another, 
Laid  there  yearly  by  the  storm  winds  ; 
Pressed  and  smoothed   by  winter   snow 
drifts. 

In  the  days  of  spring  migrations, 
Days  when  warbler  hosts  move  northward, 
To  the  forests,  to  the  leaf  beds, 
Comes  the  tiny  oven  builder. 

Daintily  the  leaves  he  tiptoes  ; 
Underneath  them  builds  his  oven, 


The  Oven- Bird  35 

Arched  and  framed  with  last  year's  oak 

leaves, 
Roofed  and  walled  against  the  raindrops. 

Hour  by  hour  his  voice  he  raises, 
Mingling  with  the  red-eye's  snatches, 
Answering  to  the  hermit's  anthem  ; 
Rising  —  falling,  like  a  wind  breath. 

Strange,  ventriloquous  his  music, 
Far  away  when  close  beside  one ; 
Near  at  hand  when  seeming  distant ; 
Weird  —  his  plaintive  accrescendo. 

Teach  us  !  teach  us  !  is  his  asking, 
Uttered  to  the  Omnipresent : 
Teach  us  !  teach  us  !  comes  responsive 
From  the  solemn  listening  forest. 

When  the  whip-poor-will  is  clucking, 
When  the  bats  unfurl  their  canvas, 
When  dim  twilight  rules  the  forest, 
Soaring  towards  the  high  stars'  radiance 


}6  The  Oven-Bird 

Far  above  the  highest  treetop, 
Singing  goes  this  sweet  Accentor. 

Noontide  never  sees  this  soaring, 
Midday  never  hears  this  music, 
Only  at  the  hour  of  slumber, 
Only  once,  as  day  is  dying, 
When  the  perils  and  the  sorrows, 
When  the  blessings  and  the  raptures, 
One  and  all  have  joined  the  finished, 
Does  this  sweet-toned  forest  singer 
Urge  his  wings  towards  endless  ether, 
Hover  high  a  single  moment 
Pouring  out  his  spirit's  gladness 
Toward  the  Source  of  life  and  being. 


BLACK   DOMINO:    THE   MARYLAND 
YELLOW-THROAT 

HISPERING     rushes,     bending 

grasses, 

Purple  orchids,  mountain  holly, 
Meadow-rue  and  clustering  alders 
Lie  beneath  the  morning  dewdrops  ; 
O'er  the  lake  the  mists  are  floating, 
In  the  east  the  sun  is  rising, 
From  the  forest  calls  the  hermit, 
In  the  pine-tops  crows  are  cawing. 
To  the  lake  a  sluggish  brook  flows  — 
Light  canoes  may  thread  its  mazes, 
O'er  it  hang  the  sweet  wild  roses, 
In  its  banks  are  muskrat's  tunnels. 
From  a  bunch  of  stiff  spirasa 
Calls  a  voice  with  merry  music, 
Calls  "  good  morrow  "  to  the  meadow, 
Calls  a  welcome  to  the  sunlight. 


38  Black  Domino 

Merry  music  —  joy  betokens, 

Show  yourself,  blithe  morning  singer. 

Deeply  set  among  the  grass  stems, 
Woven  on  them,  woven  with  them, 
Arched  and  covered  by  their  tresses, 
Holding  precious  eggs,  a  nest  lies. 
In  its  secret  depths  the  mother 
Listens  to  her  singing  master, 
Feels  the  sunlight  warm  the  grasses, 
Hears  the  breezes  stir  the  rushes, 
Hears  the  dragonfly  in  passing 
Buzz  his  greeting  to  the  turtle  ; 
Overhead  she  sees  the  dewdrops 
Flash  and  glisten  green  and  ruby, 
Through  the  forest  of  the  grasses 
Sees  a  spider  spinning,  spinning, 
Spinning  snares  for  lace-winged  insects, 
Hanging  nets  for  plump  mosquitoes. 
Once  again  she  hears  her  master 
Call  "  good  morrow  "  to  the  meadow. 
Merry  music  —  joy  betokens, 
Show  yourself,  blithe  morning  singer. 


Black  Domino  3 

See,  an  alder  lightly  waving, 
See,  the  rushes  near  are  nodding, 
Something  stirs  beyond  the  sedges, 
Something  golden  gleams  behind  them. 
Now  the  leaves  are  gently  parted 
Just  above  the  meadow's  carpet, 
And  the  joyous  singer  coyly 
Makes  his  bow  before  the  curtain. 
How  is  this  ?     A  masquerader  ? 
Come,  sir,  will  you  not  uncover  ? 
Do  not  hide  that  gold  and  ermine 
Under  domino  of  sable. 

Gone  so  quickly  !     Through  the  grasses 
Like  a  ray  of  sunshine  glinting, 
But  beyond  them  for  a  parting, 
Rises  clear,  alert,  his  greeting  — 
To  the  sunlight,  to  the  meadow, 
To  the  forest,  to  the  mountain. 
Merry  music  —  joy  betokens, 
Fare  thee  well,  blithe  masquerader. 


TWO  SENTINELS 

NCE  upon  the  slope  of  Paugus, 
Reaching  out  towards  Passacon- 


o 


way, 


Grew  a  mighty  hemlock  forest. 
Proud,  aspiring,  cloudland  seeking ; 
Through  its  branches  swept  the  west  wind, 
Laughing,  teasing,  bent  on  frolic. 
But  the  hemlocks  would  not  heed  it, 
Stiffly  held  they  high  their  summits, 
Scorning  mirth  and  jest  and  frolic, 
Frowning  on  the  roistering  west  wind. 
Tapping,  tapping  on  their  shoulders 
Came  a  friend  from  distant  Northland  ; 
On  his  head  a  cap  of  yellow, 
On  his  back  a  snow-white  ladder, 
All  his  form  in  sable  gathered, 
Brief  his  words,  but  full  of  warning : 
"  If  you  win  the  west  wind's  anger 
Fear  the  days  of  late  November." 


Two  Sentinels  41 

From  the  vale  of  singing  waters 
Where  the  deer  feed  unmolested 
Rise  black  Passaconway's  ledges 
Upward  till  the  eye  is  dizzy. 
Clouds  around  that  summit  linger, 
Safe  as  in  the  high  sky's  pastures  ; 
Stars  at  night  repose  upon  it, 
Ere  they  seek  their  downward  journey. 
Years  ago  a  dense  spruce  forest 
Clung  upon  the  heaped-up  ledges, 
Gained  the  resting-place  of  planets, 
Reared  itself  into  the  cloudland. 
Tapping,  tapping  on  its  shoulders 
Came  a  friend  from  distant  Northland  ; 
On  his  head  a  cap  of  yellow, 
Round  his  form  a  cloak  of  sable, 
Fingers  three  he  raised  in  warning, 
Brief  his  words  but  full  of  meaning  : 
"  If  you  crowd  upon  the  cloudland 
Fear  the  days  of  late  November." 

One  by  one  the  days  departed 
To  the  land  beyond  the  echoes, 


42  Two  Sentinels 

One  by  one  the  nights  departed 
To  the  land  beneath  the  shadows ; 
Gone  were  birds  and  flowers  and  insects, 
Silent  was  the  piping  hyla, 
Sullen  seemed  the  pushing  west  wind, 
Dark  and  angry  seemed  the  cloudland. 
Then  it  was  the  wayward  forests 
Seemed  to  hear  again  the  message  — 
"  Fear  the  days  of  late  November." 

Night  was  resting  on  the  heavens, 
Not  a  star  gleamed  in  the  ether, 
Only  in  the  far-off  Northland 
Dimly  glowed  a  lurid  beacon, 
Burning  in  the  awful  passes 
Close  by  Carrigain  the  mighty. 
Still  the  air,  and  soundless,  heavy, 
Phantom  vapors  mustered  quickly, 
Then  a  distant  sound  came  booming 
From  the  valley  of  the  Saco, 
Through  the  vale  of  singing  waters, 
Like  a  lake,  ice-riven,  moaning, 
Like  the  sea  in  deep  rock  caverns, 


Two  Sentinels  43 

Like  an  avalanche  in  winter, 
Like  the  winds  when  ripe  for  rapine. 
Louder,  deeper,  came  the  uproar, 
Surging,  leaping,  came  the  cloud  hosts ; 
Tremble  now,  presumptuous  forests, 
Winds  and  clouds  combine  against  you, 
Pitying  stars  have  hid  their  faces, 
Night  with  sinister  intention 
Ne'er  was  darker,  never  denser. 
Woe,  oh  woe  to  you,  proud  forests, 
Day  shall  dawn  upon  your  ruin. 
Ah,  what  sound  is  that  of  rending, 
Crushing,  crashing,  splintering  timber  ? 
Hear  the  groans  of  breaking  spruce  trunks, 
Hear  the  moans  of  straining  fibres, 
Hear  the  roar  of  falling  boulders 
Bounding  down  the  endless  ledges. 
All  of  Passaconway's  bulwarks 
Seem  to  break  before  the  storming. 

Now  the  scene  of  battle  varies  — 
Turning  on  the  flank  of  Paugus, 
All  the  hosts  of  wind  and  vapor 
Crush  their  way  across  the  hemlocks, 


44  Two  Sentinels 

Leaving  none  to  render  witness 
To  the  glory  of  their  forest. 

Morning  dawned,  and  snowflakes  fluttered 
Millions  deep  upon  the  mountains, 
Frozen  tears  of  Nature's  pity 
Sent  to  hide  the  deed  of  darkness. 
All  the  western  slope  of  Paugus, 
Passaconway's  northern  ledges, 
Heaped  with  death  were  left  dismantled, 
Stripped  of  every  form  of  beauty. 

Years  have  passed,  but  still  the  mountains 
Know  the  sentinels  in  sable. 
When  they  tap  the  hemlock's  shoulders 
Terror  thrills  the  broken  forest. 
Few  their  words  and  seldom  spoken, 
But  when  spoken  full  of  meaning, 
For  to  them  the  fall  of  forests 
By  the  axe,  or  by  the  storm  wind, 
Means  the  loss  of  home  and  shelter, 
Means  extinction  in  the  mountains 
Which  have  been  their  border  outposts 
Since  the  red  men  trod  the  valleys. 


THE   PARULA 

AR  within  the  gloomy  forest 
Stand  the  prophets  of  the  swamp 
land, 

Tall  are  they,  with  storm-blanched   fore 
heads, 

High  they  lift  their  arms  towards  heaven, 
Moan  when  winds  sweep  chilling  o'er  them, 
Weep  when  winter  snows  are  falling. 
Hanging  loose  in  uncombed  masses, 
Downward  trail  their  long  gray  beards. 
Dismal  owls  abide  beside  them, 
Bats  and  snakes  and  lizards  haunt  them, 
In  the  night  their  feet  are  lighted 
By  earth's  phosphorescent  torches. 

Years  ago,  in  youth's  keen  vigor, 
They  were  rulers  of  the  forest ; 
Far  their  leaf-hung  limbs  extended, 
High  their  heads  were  held  in  sunlight, 


46  The  Parula 

But  with  age  come  fear  and  sorrow, 
Memories  of  past  misfortunes, 
Pessimism,  born  of  failures, 
Half-healed  wounds,  bequests  of  folly. 

Just  as  childhood  romps  and  frolics 
Heedless  of  complaining  grandsires, 
So  around  these  swampland  prophets, 
While  they  groan  and  foretell  tempests, 
Dainty  birds  in  summer  hover. 
In  the  moss-hung  limbs  they  gather, 
Rainbow-tinted,  quick-winged  warblers, 
Heedless,  joyous,  evanescent. 

In  the  trailing  beards  of  gray  moss, 
Dainty  hammock  nests  they  tangle, 
Weave  them  of  the  long  gray  fibres, 
Line  them  with  the  softest  meshes, 
Leave  within  them  precious  treasures, 
Tiny  eggs,  with  rarest  markings, 
Tender,  unprotected  nestlings. 

If  by  night  the  lightning  flashes, 
If  from  high  Chocorua's  ledges 


The  Parula  47 

Crashing  thunder  shakes  the  forests, 

In  their  swinging  nests  the  mothers 

Cover  close  their  downy  darlings, 

Listen  startled  to  the  groanings 

Of  the  prophets,  as  they  murmur, 

"  See  —  we  told  you  —  storms  will  dash 

you; 
Storms  will  crush  you,  rain  will  drown  you." 

When  the  sunlight  greets  the  morning, 
Safely  swing  the  tiny  hammocks, 
And  the  gayly  clad  Parulas, 
Flying  through  the  dripping  forests, 
Sing  aloud  their  joyous  message, 
"  Nest  we  where  no  owl  can  find  us, 
Nest  we  where  no  hawk  can  see  us, 
Nest  we  where  no  jay  can  rob  us, 
Nest  we  where  no  feet  can  reach  us." 

But  the  prophets  still  will  murmur, 
Day  and  night,  until  the  winter, 
Night  and  day,  until  the  summer, 
On  the  folly  of  the  warblers, 
On  the  dangers  of  the  swampland. 


THE   RED-POLL   LINNET 

OLLOWING  the  law  of  ages, 
Law    whose    reason    time    half 

buries,  — 

Southward  have  the  sparrows  fluttered, 
Southward  have  the  finches  hastened, 
Southward  have  the  juncos  journeyed, 
Southward,  far  beyond  Monadnock. 
They  have  seen  the  snow  descending, 
They  have  heard  the  ice  king  toiling, 
They  have  listened  to  their  elders 
Saying  —  "  Flee  before  the  winter." 

Ah,  how  silent  are  the  forests  ! 

Ah,  how  desolate  Chocorua  ! 

Listening  ear  can  hear  no  music, 

Yearning  eye  can  see  no  color. 

Hush  —  what  sound  was  that  from  heaven 

Sweet  as  chorus  hymeneal  ? 


.  .  .  .  .        . 


The  Red-Poll  Linnet  49 

See  —  what  falls  from  cloudland's  spaces 
Light  of  wing  and  warm  of  tinting  ? 
See,  a  host  with  song  descending, 
See,  the  snow  with  warm  life  dappled. 

In  the  birches,  on  the  grasses 
Stiffly  rising  through  the  snow  crust, 
On  the  slope  of  yonder  sand-bank 
Where  the  snow  has  slipped  and  wasted, 
Rest  a  flock  of  trustful  strangers, 
Lisping  words  of  gentle  greeting, 
Rest  and  find  the  sun's  rays  warming, 
Rest  and  find  their  food  abundant, 
Resting,  sing  of  weary  journeys 
From  a  Northland  cold  and  distant. 

They  can  tell  of  Athabasca, 

Of  the  land  of  Manitoba, 

Of  Mistassinnie,  the  wood  lake, 

Of  the  Saguenay's  swift  water  ; 

They  can  tell  of  boundless  forests, 

Rivers  where  the  salmon  plunges, 

Lakes  where  wild  geese  dwell  untroubled, 


50  The  Red-Poll  Linnet 

Heights  where  robber  eagles  linger, 
Vales  where  caribou  are  feeding, 
Glens  in  which  at  hour  of  evening 
Rises  wild  disturbing  clamor 
From  the  lucivee,  the  wood  fiend. 

Rose-touched   are  their  brows,  with  tints 

like 

Lights  upon  a  winter's  snow-field, 
Rosy  are  their  caps  as  morning 
When  the  storm  clouds  gather  eastward, 
Happy  are  their  hearts  and  voices, 
Happy  are  the  fields  and  forests, 
When  their  merry  notes  come  jingling, 
Sleighbell  like,  from  upper  ether, 
Happy  is  the  red-cheeked  farmer 
When  they  gather  by  his  barnyard. 

Even  as  the  red-poll  linnets 
Gather  from  the  bleaker  Northland 
On  Chocorua's  wintry  pastures, 
Scorned  by  sparrows,  finches,  juncos, 
So  in  other  scenes  of  world  life 


The  Red-Poll  Linnet  51 

Cheerful   hearts   and   rose-crowned   fore 
heads 

Find  the  sympathy  they  search  for 
In  the  white,  abandoned  snow-fields, 
In  the  silent,  song-hushed  pastures 
Of  some  love-deserted  soul-land. 


MONK    AND     NUN:     THE     BLACK 
SNOW-BIRD   AND   WHITE- 
THROATED  SPARROW 

SK  the  lake  to  name  her  lover, 
Ask,  before  the  sun  has  risen, 
Ask,  before  the  breeze  has  wak 
ened, 

Ask,  while  yet  within  the  waters 
Dwells  the  image  of  the  lover, 
Tall  and  mighty,  strong  and  rugged. 
Did  you  hear  a  murmured  answer  ? 

Listen  in  the  singing  pine  wood, 
Listen,  and  a  voice  will  bid  you 
Climb  the  ledges,  struggle  northward, 
Find  the  red  fox  in  his  cavern, 
Find  the  tittering  groves  of  aspen, 
Find  the  rushing  mountain  torrents, 
Find  the  tangled  vines  and  bushes, 


Monk  and  Nun 

Stand  upon  the  mountain's  shoulder, 
Face  the  north  wind,  breast  his  jostling, 
Call  upon  him  for  the  answer. 
Who  is  yonder  fair  lake's  lover  ? 

Will  he  tell  you  ?     He  will  answer  : 
"  In  these  spruces,  on  these  ledges, 
Dwell  two  spirits,  born  of  music, 
Creatures  of  the  song  and  sunshine. 
One  in  sombre  cowl  and  cassock, 
One  with  veil  of  snowy  whiteness, 
Both  with  voices  full  of  sweetness. 
They  can  tell  you  of  the  lover." 

Then  will  pass  the  restless  north  wind 
Through  the  humble  bending  spruces, 
Leaving  loneliness  and  mystery  — 
Sky  so  wide  and  earth  so  distant 
Far  below  the  trees  are  blended 
Like  sea  waves  on  dim  horizons  ; 
Lost  in  distance  is  the  village, 
Lost  the  hum  of  life  and  labor, 
Lost  the  murmur  of  the  river, 

J 


54  Monk  and  Nun 

Lost  the  sense  of  human  presence. 
Close  above  the  clouds  are  sailing, 
Wafted  out  across  the  ether 
From   the  peaks  which  guard  the  West- 
land, 
Towards  the  plain  which  holds  the  ocean. 

Northward  range  on  range  of  mountains, 
Ragged-edged  with  balsam  forests, 
Stand  like  ranks  of  mighty  soldiers 
With  their  bayonets  uplifted. 
Hush  !     The  north  wind  has  departed, 
Quiet  reigns  upon  the  mountain. 
From  the  grove  of  spruces  yonder 
Comes  a  song  of  primal  sweetness, 
Every  note  is  long  and  tender, 
Held,    drawn    out,    like   words    of    part 
ing. 

'T  is  the  nun  within  her  abbey 
Singing  of  the  life  of  virtue. 
Hark  !     Beyond  that  riven  boulder, 
Poised  upon  the  crag's  steep  border, 
Rises  heavenward  a  gloria. 


Monk  and  Nun  55 

Every  note  is  full  of  gladness  — 
'T  is  the  monk  within  his  cloister 
Pouring  out  his  adoration. 
Quickly  ask  them,  ere  the  north  wind 
Comes  again  to  mar  the  quiet, 
Who  it  is  that  wooes  the  maiden, 
Who  may  be  the  sweet  lake's  lover. 
Ah  !     What  is  it  that  they  answer  ? 
Yes,  they  know  but  will  not  tell  you. 
Journey  back  into  the  valley, 
Shun  the  red  fox  and  the  aspens, 
Shun  the  tattling  pines  and  north  wind ; 
Seek  the  lake  herself  at  sunset, 
Float  upon  her  placid  surface, 
Look  within  her  heart  at  twilight, 
Ask  her  if  she  has  a  lover  ? 

Downward  over  thorny  ledges, 
Downward  past  the  tittering  aspens, 
Heeding  not  the  sneaking  red  fox, 
Heeding  not  the  tattling  pine-trees, 
Downward  to  the  sandy  margin 
Whence  with  paddle  swiftly  plying, 


56  Monk  and  Nun 

Out  upon  the  lake's  broad  surface, 
Strong  arms  send  the  light  boat  flying. 

Now  the  sun  has  met  the  forest, 

Now  the  breeze  has  sighed  and  slumbered, 

Now  the  whip-poor-will  is  calling, 

Now  at  last  the  lake  is  placid. 

Suddenly  within  the  waters 

Seems  to  grow  a  mighty  figure, 

Holding  high  an  awful  forehead, 

Reaching  far  two  arms  of  granite. 

Ah  !  they  clasp  the  lake  between  them, 

They  enfold  it,  and  the  lover 

Seems  to  fill  the  lake's  whole  being 

With  his  beauty,  with  his  power, 

With  his  all-demanding  presence. 

So  the  answer  to  the  question 

Asked  at  dawn  has  come  at  twilight, 

And  the  lake's  mysterious  lover 

Is  Chocorua,  the  mountain. 


THE   GREAT  CRESTED  FLY 
CATCHER 

ESTWARD  of  Chocorua  water 
Stands  an  ancient  apple  orchard, 
Overhung  by  lofty  maples, 

Bearing  scars  of  many  sappings  ; 

Warm  and  sunny  is  the  orchard, 

Plenty  are  its  acid  apples, 

In  its  hollows  squirrels  nestle, 

In  its  branches  birds  assemble. 

Titmice  love  this  orchard's  hollows, 
Caverns  in  its  trunks  and  branches 
Make  them  warm  and  cosy  nestings, 
Safely  hidden  from  the  blue  jay. 
Here  the  deer-eyed  flying-squirrel, 
Mice  and  bluebirds,  swallows,  adders, 
Find  in  turn  their  favorite  havens  ; 
Here,  as  well,  a  harsh-voiced  tyrant 
Makes  his  home  within  a  cavern. 


5#    The  Great  Crested  Fly-Catcher 

Late  in  May  he  makes  his  nesting, 
Seeks  a  deep  and  darksome  hollow 
In  the  orchard's  oldest  tree-trunk, 
Lines  it  well  with  matted  cow's  hair, 
Grasses,  feathers,  bits  of  wasps'  nests, 
Slender  roots,  or  silky  fibres, 
Here  and  there  a  scrap  of  paper, 
Shred  of  bark,  or  seed  of  thistle. 

Odder  things  than  these  he  uses,  — 
Things    for    something    else    than    com 
fort ; 

Sometimes  to  the  general  tangle 
He  will  add  a  tail  of  chipmunk, 
Sometimes  fish  scales,  iridescent, 
Mingle  in  the  mystic  chaos, 
But  his  chiefly  favored  fetish 
Is  a  piece  of  cast-off  snake  skin. 

In  this  ill-assorted  rubbish 
Four  or  five  strange  eggs  are  hidden ; 
They  are  tinted  like  the  matted 
Leaves  and  grasses,  hair  and  feathers  ; 


The  Great  Crested  Fly-Catcher    59 

From  their  larger  end  descending 
Countless  slender  rays  or  streakings 
Seek  the  point,  while  in  beginning 
They  are  blended  in  a  tangle. 

What  can  be  the  explanation 
Of  this  bird's  persistent  fancy  ? 
Why  through  countless  generations 
Have  they  sought  for  cast-off  snake  skins 
To  adorn  or  guard  their  nestings 
In  the  hollow  of  the  tree-trunks  ? 
Do  the  mouse,  the  snake,  and  squirrel 
Fear  a  scrap  of  harmless  snake  skin  ? 

Wild  and  wary  is  this  tyrant, 
Harsh  his  screaming,  angry  whistle, 
Strange  his  comings  and  his  goings, 
Strange  his  likings  and  his  hatings  ; 
Round  about  Chocorua  water 
He  has  found  the  haunts  he  fancies, 
But  in  many  another  valley 
None  have  ever  heard  his  clamor. 


60    The  Great  Crested  Fly-Catcher 

He  is  one  that  shuns  the  winter, 
Knows  no  home  where  snowflakes  flutter. 
Insect  wings  proclaim  his  coming, 
Insect  death  foretells  his  going, 
With  the  arbutus  he  enters, 
With  the  goldenrod  he  passes, 
Hither  from  the  south  in  Maytime, 
Thither  with  the  equinoctial. 


THE   WHIP-POOR-WILL 

OONLIGHT    sparkles     on    the 

water, 

Breezes  whisper  in  the  aspens. 
Foxes  bark  upon  the  ridges, 
Owls  complain  within  the  forest, 
Bats  are  flitting,  crickets  chirping, 
Frogs  in  distant  sedges  croaking, 
Muskrats  in  the  weeds  are  splashing, 
Mists  across  the  lake  are  creeping. 

From  the  clearing  comes  a  message, 
Tremulous  and  full  of  motive,  — 
Weird,  half  sorrowful,  uncanny, 
Taken  up  by  other  voices, 
Echoed  by  the  sleeping  forests, 
Borne  across  the  lake's  broad  bosom, 
Heard  and  answered  by  the  herons, 
Heard  and  answered  by  the  divers. 


62  The  WUp-Poor-Will 

Nearer  comes  the  mystic  singer, 
Louder  sounds  the  weird  complaining, 
Then  a  pair  of  soft  wings  flutter 
Soundless,  close  above  the  bushes. 
In  the  sand  beside  the  lake  shore 
Drops  the  melancholy  minstrel, 
And  again  his  lamentation, 
Rhythmic,  sad,  with  repetition, 
Throbs  across  Chocorua  water, 
Echoes  from  the  aspen  forest. 

In  the  sand  the  singer  lingers, 
Now  and  then  a  feline  purring 
Seems  to  tell  of  solaced  sorrow  ; 
Not  for  long,  for  from  his  wallow 
Comes  the  mournful  repetition, 
Broken  by  a  gutt'ral  clucking, 
Sobbing  to  the  wakeful  echo. 

Through  the  hours  of  moonlit  darkness 
Comes  incessantly  the  message, 
Now  from  shore,  and  now  from  forest, 
Now  from  hill,  and  now  from  meadow, 


The  WUp-Poor-Will  63 

Sometimes  sinking  soon  to  silence, 
Sometimes  throbbing  on  till  daylight 
Reappears,  and  calls  for  quiet 
Lest  the  sound  throb  on  forever. 

Sunlight  sparkles  on  the  water, 
Breezes  set  the  waves  a-rolling, 
Crows  discourse  upon  the  ridges, 
Thrushes  sing  within  the  forest, 
Swifts  are  flitting,  sparrows  chirping, 
Cows  in  distant  pastures  lowing, 
Minnows  through  the  weeds  are  darting, 
Clouds  above  the  lake  are  sailing. 

But  the  whip-poor-wills  are  silent ; 
In  the  copse,  among  the  fern  fronds, 
Underneath  the  lady's  slipper, 
Voiceless,  drowsy,  hide  the  singers, 
Hide  so  closely  that  no  footfalls 
Will  arouse  them,  will  disturb  them, 
Till  themselves  or  eggs  are  threatened 
By  the  foot  of  the  invader. 


THE   KINGFISHER 

ARK  !     What  sound  disturbs  the 

stillness 

Of  the  forest,  of  the  meadow  ? 
Harsh  the  notes,  a  wild  alarum, 
Waking  echoes  from  the  ledges, 
Mocking  laughter  from  the  hemlocks. 
Hark  !  it  nearer  comes  and  rattles, 
Like  the  hail  upon  the  grape  leaves, 
Like  cold  rain  upon  the  cornfield. 

From  the  clear  Chocorua  water 
Slowly  slips  the  wasting  ice-sheet. 
In  the  space  reclaimed  from  winter 
Pale  blue  skies  are  seen  reflected, 
And  the  sleeping  lion's  profile 
From  among  them  gleams  majestic. 

See,  reflections  calm  are  broken, 
Waves  arise  and  lap  the  ice-sheet, 


The  Kingfisher 

And  again  the  wild  alarum 
Echoes  from  the  gloomy  hemlocks. 

From  the  agitated  water, 
Like  a  fragment  of  the  picture 
Of  the  April  sky  just  broken, 
Rises  swiftly  towards  the  forest 
He  who  makes  this  clamorous  discord, 
He  who  broke  the  calm  reflection, 
Tyrant  of  the  sleeping  waters, 
Terror  of  their  finny  dwellers. 

Thus  he  comes  with  melting  ice-sheets, 
Comes  with  challenge  and  with  bluster, 
Flashing  like  a  feathered  arrow 
Through  the  gleaming  sun  of  Easter, 
Searching  for  the  schools  of  minnows 
In  the  shallows,  on  the  sand-bars, 
Calling  out  his  wild  defiance 
To  the  forest,  to  the  mountain. 

Weeks  roll  by,  and  May-time  lingers, 
Full  of  music,  full  of  perfume. 


66  The  Kingfisher 

Over  eddying  Bearcamp  water 
Myriad  swallows  glide  and  twitter. 
Golden  sand-banks  flank  the  river, 
Riddled  are  they,  like  a  frigate 
Wrecked  by  cruel  grape  and  shrapnel, 
Riddled  by  the  swallows'  borings. 

Flash  !  a  jet  of  white  and  azure 
Leaves  the  sand-bank,  clips  the  water, 
Rises  to  a  blasted  maple, 
Drooping  o'er  the  Bearcamp  eddies. 
Hark  !  again  the  forest  quivers 
To  the  harsh  and  jarring  challenge, 
And  again  the  fish  are  startled 
By  this  plunge  beneath  the  waters. 

In  the  sand-bank,  near  the  turf  line, 
Is  a  larger,  deeper  boring 
Than  the  borings  of  the  swallows. 
Here  the  king's  proud  fisher  lodges, 
Lodges  on  a  heap  of  fishbones, 
Lodges  in  the  deepest  darkness, 
Lays  her  seven  snow-white  treasures, 
Fondles  them  and  gives  them  being. 


The  Kingfisher  67 

To  the  log-cock  in  the  forest 
Man's  advances  bring  disaster  ; 
To  the  phcebe  and  the  bluebird 
Farms  are  full  of  friendly  shelter  ; 
To  the  hawk  the  shotgun  preaches, 
Grouse  the  hunter  keeps  in  peril, 
But  to  this  fierce  water  tyrant 
All  man's  comings,  stayings,  goings, 
Count  for  less  than  south  wind  whispers, 
Count  for  nothing,  pass  unnoticed. 
Proud,  defiant,  strong-winged,  fearless, 
All  his  daily  needs  supplied  him, 
Air  and  water,  sand  and  fishes  j 
Given  these  and  naught  else  needs  he, 

So  he  was  in  days  unnumbered, 
Days  before  man  trod  the  forest, 
Days  before  the  thin  ash-paddle 
Cleft  the  waters  of  the  Bearcamp  ; 
Days  when  mighty  glaciers,  melting, 
Made  the  lakes,  which  bred  the  rivers ; 
Days  when  great  Chocorua's  profile 
Slept  unknown  beneath  Arcturus. 


68  The  Kingfisher 

So  in  some  dim  age  of  future 
When  man's  foot  has  left  these  valleys, 
This  proud  bird  may  still  be  monarch 
Of  the  eddying  Bearcamp  waters. 


I 


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